


Venus Rising

by pipisafoat



Category: In Plain Sight
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipisafoat/pseuds/pipisafoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has something more fun than paperwork to do this evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venus Rising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likelike_love](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=likelike_love).



He shows up at her house late in the evening, two minutes after nautical twilight starts, with a stack of paperwork for her to sign and pretend she filled out. She's familiar with the routine and should be waiting for him in the kitchen, beer in hand, ready to make fun of him for going to her old apartment before remembering she bought a house. In his defense, he's only been here twice before, but that wouldn't stop her.

Nobody answers the door when he knocks, but it's unlocked, so he wanders in and dumps the folder on the kitchen counter, grabs a beer, calls her name. "Your door's unlocked, and your car's in the street for some reason, so don't even pretend you aren't here!"

"Martin, right?"

He whirls around to find Mary's mother (Jinx, he dredges up from his memory) standing in a doorway, bathrobe on her body and towel sloppily wrapped around her head. "Marshall," he corrects automatically. "I'm ... uh ... is Mary here?"

"She went for a swim," Jinx says, looking him up and down like a piece of meat. "You ought to go join her."

Marshall can't stop the nervous giggle from escaping, and the look on her face is worth it. "I don't have a suit with me," he answers.

"I doubt that would bother her too much." She shrugs and wanders into the kitchen. "Suit yourself."

He stands awkwardly for a minute, watching her pour wine into a far-too-large glass, and eventually decides to just go find Mary himself. The papers can stay on the counter, he decides, but the beer won't be left alone with anyone related to his partner. He sees her as soon as he steps outside, but before he can call her name, he realizes exactly what she's wearing. Or, more accurately, what she isn't wearing.

 _Jesus._ He pauses in the shadows, taking a moment just to _look_ , because he's sure this is the only chance he'll ever have. She's beautiful. Perfect. Aphrodite floating on the sea, taking a moment for herself before announcing her birth and taking the role of goddess. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and brings the bottle to his lips to steady himself before calling her name and, of course, pretending he hasn't seen a thing.

When she moves, though, he's instantly glad he hasn't gotten any of the beer in his mouth yet, because her hand is moving slowly down her body, fingertips grazing skin, and there is no way he could have remembered how to swallow. The bottle hangs by its neck in a slack noose of two fingers-- fingers he wishes desperately could join hers in making that slow, maddening trip over her body. Fingertips slide around the curve of her breast, skate around her stomach with the tiniest shiver, trace the point of her hipbone, and trail off into the pool water down her thigh. He leans over slowly, carefully, sets the beer by his foot before his fingers twitch with wanting and drop it.

The fingers move again, this time pushing a stray lock of hair off her forehead, and Marshall wonders at the way her hair fans around her head, giving her the faintest hint of a halo when combined with the muted glow of the single porch light. He thinks it must have climbed ten degrees since he stepped outside, which is not what normally happens in the evening, and _somebody call the National Weather Service_ races crazily through his brain as he opens the top few buttons of his shirt. Mary's hand moves - slowly, slowly, never disturbing her peaceful floating - to cup her breast, and his breath catches when he sees her other hand start to draw patterns on the inside of her thigh.

 _I'd trace my name on her,_ he thinks, _given half a chance, with a finger or my tongue._ He closes his eyes for an instant, partly to regroup but mostly to savor that image. When he drags them open again, it's in just enough time to see her fingers slide over her nipple, and he's sure that the tiny motion her head made would have been an arch of her neck anywhere but in the pool. He lets his mouth drop open a little bit, breathing as quietly as he can, and watches the slide repeat until it's a full-out pinch and the head movement is audible as a gasp.

He's surprised at how slowly she moves, because she's always seemed like the person to get what she wants, when she wants it, as surely in bed as anywhere else. He thinks wildly of past girlfriends who have wanted to watch, how he took it so slowly to give them what they wanted, and his eyes flick wildly around to be sure he is still concealed, but there is no question. Mary is not putting on a show for him or anybody; this is just her, how she feels like spending her night, lighting fires under unsuspecting partners. _Did she plan this?_ he wonders abruptly, but it simply isn't a possibility. If she knows how attracted he is to her - and she'd have to be blind not to - she'd either studiously not make a move or jump him one day. This in between, this delicious torture, is not her style, and Marshall finds himself in knots over it.

As he squeezes his eyes shut tightly to remember why he needs to turn and walk away, he hears the most incredible noise from the pool, and he can't help but look back. She seems to have finally tired of teasing herself, and the fingers inside of her make Marshall groan in jealously tortured pleasure before he can stop himself. He jerks further into the shadows, but she hasn't noticed him, involved as she is in her own gratification. Her mouth falls open again, the same noise tumbling haphazardly into his ears, dashing through his veins with joyous abandon. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and the hand not employed between her legs comes up to clench in floating hair. His mind flashes back to Aphrodite, and Marshall wants to kill all the people who've seen Mary this way and still let her get away.

The yard is full of her quiet gasps, echoing in his ears until the only other thing he can hear is his labored breathing. It's only when he realizes that some of the noises are too deep to be her voice that he becomes aware of his own hand matching her every move. He snatches it away, silently curses his yearning to continue, and watches her reach her zenith, finally yet far too soon. Silence descends over them, and Marshall stuffs his knuckles into his mouth to muffle the whispers threatening to escape. He watches her release her hair, withdraw her fingers, and stretch languidly, floating easily, a solitary figure in her backyard Aegean sea.

And the night air is suddenly too calm, too still for his desperate need, and he chokes back a moan as his feet carry him away, his key lets him in the car, and his hands get him out of his pants and into shameful pleasure.


End file.
